


Beneficence

by allisondraste



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Modern Psychologist in Thedas, Multi, Psychology, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-05-24 05:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14948795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisondraste/pseuds/allisondraste
Summary: Beneficence: (n.) an act of charity, mercy, and kindness with a strong connotation of doing good to others including moral obligation.Heather Amell is a 28-year-old psychologist, living in a monotonous daily routine since she graduated from her Psy.D. program two years ago.  Ambitious and compassionate, but burdened with feelings of inadequacy and mounds of student debt, she longs for a purpose.  After a strange encounter in a dream, she finds herself in a completely unfamiliar world, tormented by suffering and in need of someone with her particular set of skills.  Driven by compassion, Heather is determined to help those who are devoted to saving this odd new world, and in the process she discovers who she really is.UPDATES CURRENTLY PAUSED





	1. Wisps in the Haze

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my lovely fan friends for the plot nug, writing advice, and all around push to get this started. <3

_Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!_

_Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!_

_Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!_

 

“Ugh, Six-thirty already,” Heather mumbled into the pillow where she lay face down.  She rolled over to check the time on the alarm clock, squinting from the glare from the bright red numbers.  She slapped at the top of the clock until obnoxious beeping stopped and sat up on the edge of her full-sized, too-firm, bed that her grandparents given her, waiting for consciousness to set in.

It was the beginning of another typical day, filled with clients, notes, and convincing herself that she was making a difference in people’s lives. She loved what she did. She loved helping people.  She simply hated Mondays. Of course that mantra would have been more comforting had she not had one for every day of the week. She fumbled around in the dark until she found the light switch, flipping it on and flinching as fluorescence that flooded her senses.  She dressed in a tank top, shorts, and tennis shoes, and pulled her mess of black hair into a ponytail. Grabbing her phone and keys, she left her apartment for her morning run.

She jogged down the quiet streets that twisted through her neighborhood, blaring the music on her iPhone, praying that it would drown out the catcalls that she often received when she dared use a public space to exercise rather than the treadmill in the corner of her spare room that she inaccurately labeled her “office.”  Maroon 5’s Misery shattered past her ear drum and directly into her brain, yet she could still hear a honk and a revved engine from an enormous must-be-compensating-for-something truck. Clearly they had mistaken her for a “honk if you’re horny sign. She lowered the volume on her phone to a less painful level, since it did not matter anyway.

The circle around her block did not take long to complete, and she returned to her apartment, showered, and got ready for her day.  Such was the schedule she survived for the past two years. Stressful as it had been while she was a graduate student, she missed the irregular routine that allowed variety into her life.  Since her graduation, her days had all looked the same. Clients, notes, reports, and sitting alone on her couch eating leftover spaghetti and rewatching old television shows rather than starting anything new.  Ambition burned within her, yet she lacked a firm goal toward which she could direct that energy.

Why did she even bother?  The thought, or similar thoughts, gnawed at the back of her mind every morning as she made her commute to the community outpatient clinic where she worked. All those years of education, a mountain of debt, and she still felt like an imposter with nothing but a diploma masking her inefficacy _._  The words of her former professors and classmates echoed in her memory, complimenting her ability to connect with clients so easily, praising her for the progress she made with her clients in practicum, and assuring her that “it’s natural to feel incompetent.” She would not be where she was if she had not earned it. Her clients’ woes resonated so strongly with her. Self-doubt and feelings of worthlessness were no joke.

As always, she tackled her day head on, ignoring the negative thoughts that fluttered about in her mind. It did not stop her from mentally scolding herself for what she perceived to be “screw ups” during her sessions. She should not miss chances to validate their feelings.  She was such a useless therapist. At times she would have to redirect herself to attend to the client rather than her own ruminations. It was hard to pay attention to her clients words when she was continually “shoulding” herself. Absorbed in her work, Heather’s day passed quickly, with only one session seeming to drag on for much longer than the fifty minutes it actually lasted. She could not blame the client for being recalcitrant.  If she had been a fourteen-year-old boy whose mother forced him to talk to some random lady about his anger issues, she would have told the therapist to “Fuck off,” too.

Unfortunately, note-writing took less time to write than expected, and she was left without an excuse for skipping lunch with her colleagues.  She laughed along with their jokes and complained about work-related items, but she did not feel connected to any of them. They were all so perfect and polished, and she was anything but.  When she started working at the clinic, she had repeatedly assured herself that she would mesh with the other therapists in time. At this point, it was more likely that she fall into another dimension than to make friends with her well-established, ten-years-older-than-her colleagues.  She was not interested in conversations about mortgages. She did not even know how they worked. Loneliness settled in her chest as she finished her lunch and returned to her desk. She missed her friends from home.

Following that dreadful lunch break, an afternoon group therapy session and a psychological evaluation were much more appealing.  The group discussion focused on assertiveness and social effectiveness until two of the clients became agitated with one another. Conflict resolution skills and problem solving seemed to be more relevant topics after that. The psychological evaluation consisted of administering and I.Q. test to a hyperactive seven-year-old.  Once it was completed, she breathlessly sent the boy away with his mother, doting upon how well he had done in his session. She could have skipped her jog that morning, as chasing the boy around with the testing easels had been more than enough cardio for the day. She left the clinic exhausted, starving, and more than ready to flop down onto her couch for the rest of the evening.

When she arrived at her apartment, she ignored the trash that needed to be taken out, the dishes that needed to be washed, and the clothes that needed to be put away. She changed into more comfortable clothing, ate dinner, and settled into the couch with a book.  She loved fantasy and a chance to escape from the mundane nature of the real world. She would rather fight a dragon with her bare hands than write another report this week. Alas, she was fresh out of dragons.Sleep fell upon Heather before she finished even a single chapter.

She suddenly found herself standing in a hazy nebulous mist, surrounded by floating hunks of rock. It was different than any dream she ever remembered having.  Wisps of light swirled around her, each emanating a different presence. A red wisp passed through her and she was overcome with a desire to right all of the wrongs of the world. Whether it was justice or vengeance, she could not tell.  The feeling from the red wisp subsided and a blue wisp hovered around her and flashes of memories from all of her coursework and a sense of confidence in her knowledge filled her mind. She hoped this wisdom remained with her when she awoke. More lights touched her, filling her with patience and faith, generosity and mercy.  None remained with her, however. They danced briefly before evaporating into the mist until only one tiny off-white wisp remained.

This small light did not seem inherently different than the others, but it did not approach her.  Curious, she took a step toward it. The light responded to her movement and inched closer, mirroring her own pace.  Heather took two more steps and the wisp matched the distance, meeting her in the middle. She extended an arm toward the light, feeling its warmth as it met the palm of her hand.  Suddenly she felt heavy, as if the air were pressing down on her. Her chest tightened and it became hard to breathe. She felt pain, anguish, fear and heartache, but none were her own.  It was as if she bore the suffering of an entire world, and in that moment there was nothing that she would not do to alleviate that suffering. Was this the wisp? Was the light hurting?

“What do I do?” she cried in anguish “How can I help?” The light grew and enveloped her, and the pain dissipated as quickly as it had arrived.  The world around her swirled and vanished behind the light as she seemed to be pulled through space at an impossible speed. The movement only stopped when she she landed flat on a hard, cold surface with a _thud_ that knocked the wind from her lungs.

She shot up, expecting to see her apartment around her, perhaps she had fallen from her couch in her sleep.  As she looked around there was nothing remotely familiar to her, only snow covered hills and mountains as far as the eye could see. She shivered, her tattered t-shirt from her alma-mater and her threadbare leggings were not sufficient for such deep cold. Then, another sort of chill creeped up her spine.  She turned around to see an enormous fortress in the background, and two figures looming over her. One was a tall, slender man in humble dress almost as tattered as hers, but he did not seem cold. He had a bald head and large, pointed ears. Heather blinked and shook her head, certain that she was imagining things, before looking to the other form.  He was slightly shorter and pale as the snow itself.  His eyes were sunken into his face that was hidden beneath the largest hat she had ever seen.  His presence seemed familiar, although she knew she had never seen him before.

Whether she was dissociating or hallucinating she could not be certain; however, thought dysfunction was not typically accompanied by a high degree of insight, so any attempt to asses her own mental status would be moot.  She rubbed her temples and pinched the bridge of her nose. There was the possibility that she was still dreaming, but that did not explain why it felt so intimately real. Hearing the voices of the two men in front of her, she turned her focus back to them.

“This must be the disturbance we sensed in the Veil,” the bald, pointy man spoke with a voice as smooth as the skin atop his head.  Heather tried not to be offended that he talked about her as if she were an object rather than a person.

“Strange, strong, seeking,” the hat ghost said in an urgent whisper, “ Her soul wants to help. It is old, but it is... not supposed to be here.” He paced around with his hands over his face, appearing to be anxious.

While they spoke her language, their words made little sense. What was the Veil? How did she have an old soul? Of, _course_ she was not supposed to be there, wherever “there” was.  Still, they did not threaten her in deed or presence. They seemed to be as confused by her existence as she was by theirs. She wanted to speak, words eluded her, and the cold was starting to take its toll on her body.  Her fingers and toes grew numb, both developing a purple tinge.

“I understand you must be confused, but we should discuss this matter inside,” the bald man spoke, seeming to notice her examining her own extremities.  He extended a hand to her, “ Come, we mean you no harm.”

Hesitant to accompany these strange men, but even more hesitant to die from hypothermia, Heather took his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. Pain radiated from her joints, likely caused by hitting the ground so hard. Still, she managed to hobble along behind them, after refusing the bald man’s offer to assist her.  As she passed through the gate, she was struck by just how immense the fortress was.

“This is one hell of a dream,” she uttered under her breath as she gaped at the architecture and the people running about it’s exterior.

“This is no dream,” the bald man stated, smiling apologetically as he look a back at her, “Of that you can be certain.”

 


	2. Leather and Fur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barely having time to heal and become acquainted with her surroundings, Heather receives a not-so-warm welcome to Skyhold.

The quiet warmth of the infirmary contrasted starkly with the frigid air and activity in the courtyard outside.  Of course, reaching the infirmary had felt much like a walk of shame, as countless onlookers watched as Heather followed behind her bald guide and his ghostly companion.  It seemed odd that someone as unassuming as herself was the center of attention, especially considering that she was disheveled and wearing old pajamas. Apparently falling from a void in the sky was not something that typically happened to people, even in a world as strange is this appeared to be.

The bald man’s eyes pierced through Heather, examining her intently as the nurse tended to her bruises and  nearly frostbitten toes. The ghostly young man with the hat became preoccupied with an injured man in the corner who was groaning in agony.  The nurse offered Heather a thick woolen blanket to wrap around herself and told her she could take a seat on one of the beds while she left to retrieve some type of salve that was supposed to help Heather to heal more quickly.

“Is there a problem?” Heather asked as she sat down slowly on a bed, the pain in her joints painting a grimace on her face, “You’ve been staring.”  

“I apologize for causing you discomfort,” the man said with a nod, “I am attempting to determine the meaning of your presence here. By all reasonable explanations it should be impossible.”  He tapped his chin with his fingers as he paced about in front of her before stopping to examine her again. 

“Heather,” she announced.  
  
“Pardon?”

“My name,” she stated matter-of-factly, “It’s Heather. I’m hoping that if you know my name, you will talk to me  instead of studying me like some strange artifact you happened to find lying around.”

The man blinked several times but did not speak, appearing to be caught off guard by her directness.  Heather welcomed the release of tension that accompanied the nurse’s return. Her worn hands clutched large, clear vial filled with an orange-colored substance that looked as if it were still boiling.  Despite her concern about the temperature of this liquid that was about touch her skin, Heather complied when the nurse motioned for her to lie down. Her skin tingled as the nurse massaged the substance to her bruises and numb extremities, and the pain began to dissipate.

“I am Solas,” the man spoke as the nurse worked. He gazed off toward the wall at the far end of the room. It was an excellent mechanism for  avoiding any sort of personal connection. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and then returned his gaze to Heather. The nurse finished applying the salve and left to tend some other patients.

“Solas.” Heather repeated his name as she sat up and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her shoulders.

“Yes... and that is Cole.” The ghostly young man either did not hear nor did not care that his name had been spoken, as he continued to tend to the injured soldier, whose moans no longer filled the room.

Heather shook her head, hoping to rid herself of these absurd hallucinations.  Yet the odd new scenery that surrounded her remained and she just felt dizzy. She should have been more alarmed by waking up in a strange new place, but she still had not convinced herself that she was not in a coma and experiencing some incredibly complex and organized dream.  She examined Solas more closely, his large pointed ears much more salient now that she was not concerned with the state of her toes. Heather did not like to make assumptions, but he looked eerily like he walked straight out of a J.R.R. Tolkien novel.

“I, um,” she stuttered as the culturally sensitive words she searched for floated just out of her grasp, “In my world, everyone is like me, and I -”

“You are curious about my appearance,” Solas completed her question warmly, an enormous relief to Heather.  The last thing she wanted to do if she really were in an alternate universe was to start a conversation with a microaggression.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “We only know of people like you from our fantasy stories.  We call you elves.”

“As do we,” he said, surprise and curiosity washing over his face, “Tell me, what do you know of this world? 

“I don’t even know where I _am_ ,” she retorted, her composure dissolving, “I don’t know why I’m here.”  
  
“You did not arrive on purpose, then?”  He sounded as if a theory of his had just been confirmed.

Heather shook her head in disbelief. Everything she knew about physics from that one throw-away elective she took during undergrad told her that it should be impossible to jump into another universe, even with the intent to do so.  She had done nothing but fall asleep on her couch at 8:00 p.m. and now she was suddenly in a weird mountain world where everything was cold and elves were not just characters in books.

“Pardon ma’am,” the nurse approached her bed again,“Thought you might want a change of clothes, something a bit.. warmer.” The nurse scanned Heather from head to toe,  looking absolutely scandalized by her choice of sleep wear. She placed a bundle of folded clothing and a pair of boots that looked too large on the edge of the bed. Heather traced the fabric with her fingers.  Just as everything else, it felt so very real.

“You should get changed,” Solas said abruptly, drawing her from her thoughts, “Join me outside when you are ready.  It appears there is much we need to discuss.” He exited the infirmary, and Cole, who had now finished with the wounded man followed him, his pale eyes meeting Heather’s own as he walked past her without saying a word.  

The new clothing provided a pleasant change in warmth. The large, coarse tunic settled heavily upon her shoulders as she tucked it into fur-lined leather pants into which her ass had surprisingly fit without a struggle. As suspected, the rough leather boots were a size too big, perfect to fit over the thick wool socks that hugged her feet and ankles tightly, a shield against the frigid snow that has appeared to coat every surface in this world. A smart coat of more leather and more fur completed the outfit.  The garments were anything but fashionable, but she would be warm, damn it . Heather thanked the nurse for her hospitality, and exited the infirmary.

The outside world was bright and buzzed with the sounds of hundreds of people hard at work. As her eyes adjusted to the light,  she heard men and women sparring in the distance, swords clinging together, shields thudding upon impact. The murmur of many conversations filled the biting air that nearly stole the breath from her lungs. For the first time since she awoke in this place, Heather actually felt awake.

Cole stood beside the door to the infirmary, leaning against the wooden exterior, intensely focused on Solas and a group of incredibly intimidating people standing several yards away, just out of earshot.  Solas stood with pristine posture, his hands clasped behind his back, as a young woman with elegantly-braided copper hair glowered up at him. A stern-looking, muscular woman with impressive eyebrows stood next to her, while a tall, blond, Ken-doll-looking fellow paced nervously behind them, scratching the back of his neck.  Two other women stood to the side, one in a hood, and the other hastily making marks on an odd clipboard. It would have been ideal to be able to hear what they were saying. It was more than likely about her after all.

“They do not understand you,” Cole said softly, as if reading her mind, “And that makes them afraid.”

Heather wanted to tell him that was not comforting, that ignorance and fear were a nasty combination.  From the speed at which the imposing group was approaching her, she did not believe she had time to do so.  She inched backward from them until the hard surface of the infirmary door pressed into her back. Her chest tightened with the familiar pressure of anxiety no matter how she mentally willed herself to be brave. It was a difficult thing to do as she watched Ken Doll and Eyebrows hover their hands over the swords at their sides. She wondered what it would feel like to be stabbed. Unpleasant, probably.

“This is the one who fell from the sky,” Eyebrows asked as she squinted at Heather, “She… is just a woman.”  Her posture relaxed and Heather could see softness in her eyes that she had not noticed before. She wondered about the scar on her face. The wound that caused it must have hurt.

“Cassandra, you know we cannot let our guard down,” Ken Doll cautioned and Heather took note of Eyebrows’ actual name, “She could be a mage, or worse: an abomination. Demons can create sophisticated disguises.” The dark circles under his eyes and shaky insistence on extra caution hinted at a deeper issue that had nothing to do with Heather.

“She has no magical capabilities,” Solas interjected, moving to stand at Heather’s side “Surely you can sense that as well.”

“Magic or no, the commander is not wrong,” the elven woman said, her voice deeper and more commanding than expected, “Do you expect us to trust someone who just fell from the sky without explanation?”  Up close, Heather could see the intricate swirls of green lines that matched her eyes tattooed on her face.

“The same argument was made against you, lethallan,” Solas answered, smirking slightly “Is she any less worthy of trust than yourself?”  At his remark, the woman huffed.

“I believe the young woman should speak for herself,” the hooded woman said with a grin that was a strange combination of sweet and sinister.

“Yes, yes! This is no way to treat a guest of the Inquisition,” the woman with the clipboard said, “Do tell us, what is your name?”

The privilege of speaking for herself would have sounded nice had it not been for the fear that she would say something completely wrong, leading to her execution.  The word “inquisition” had a distinctly negative connotation, as she had only ever heard it used to discuss the religious organizations in the 15th Century that prosecuted hundreds of thousands of people for being heretics of the Catholic Church. She swallowed the lump in her throat and prepared herself to speak.

“I am Heather,” she answered, “Heather Amell.”  With the mention of her last name, the hooded woman and the one they called “the commander” exchanged glances.

“That _would_ explain things,” the Ken Doll commander said, bitterness clinging to his words. “The Amell bloodline is filled with impossible people.”

“Are you any relation to the Hero of Ferelden,” the hooded woman asked, her expression softening as she spoke.

“I am not even from this world,” Heather explained hesitantly, “Even if I know who this Hero of Ferelden was, there is no way I could be related to them.”

“How strange,” the hooded woman said, tapping her chin in thought, “You look so much like her.”  

“I am not willing to believe this is simply coincidence,” the commander sighed as he shook his head.

“You say you are from a different world,” the elven woman said, not-so-subtly changing the subject, “If that is the case, how did you get here, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Heather said with a shrug, “I know that I fell asleep in my world, had a weird dream, and woke up outside this fortress in the snow.”

“Solas,” the elven woman said his name as if it were a question. The rest of the group looked toward Solas, who appeared to be deep in thought.

“I have yet to determine the cause of Heather’s arrival,” Solas said, staring off into the distance rather than looking at the people to whom he was speaking, “Though I do not believe it to be a coincidence. There must be a purpose behind it.”

“Bright but blurry, thoughts whisper behind a wall of light, soul singing the same song “ Cole said suddenly, “She is not supposed to be here, but she can help.”  

Cole’s pattern of speech eluded Heather, and she wondered what he meant. Helping was what she knew; it was her profession.  However, she did not know how much use her therapeutic skills would be in this place. Then she remembered her dream, the light that carried so much suffering.  Could it have had something to do with why she was here? She asked to help it after all. The people surrounding her exchanged uneasy glances, and the elven woman nodded, as if she had made some decision about something.

“Do you have any combat training,” she asked sharply, “Any other skills that would be useful to us?”

“I… I have never even held a weapon, but I could learn,” Heather answered nervously, “I also have experience with research, communication, and negotiation.”  Describing her skills in terms of how they might be useful to this “Inquisition” was as difficult as it had been to make herself sound presentable on internship applications.

“Then you will serve as an agent under Josephine, assisting the Inquisition in it’s diplomatic affairs” the elven woman responded, motioning toward the woman with the clipboard, who nodded her head politely, “Dagna, our Arcanist, could also use your help in her research.”

“Are you certain of this, Inquisitor,” the commander asked, his voice urgent, “How can we be sure she-”

“In the meantime,” she interrupted, “Solas will be able to study her and determine what brought her here, and hopefully how we can return her to her world.” 

The commander grumbled, but protested no further.  The rest of the group seemed to agree with the inquisitor’s decision, Josephine appearing to be genuinely pleased.  The inquisitor stepped closer to Heather, making very direct, very intense eye contact.

“Do not take our hospitality for granted,” she said, the “or else,” implied in her tone.  She did not give Heather a chance to make any promises, as she turned to leave. Cassandra, Josephine, the commander, and the hooded woman followed behind her, leaving only Solas and Cole standing with Heather.

“That was...stressful,” Heather sighed.

“I had not expected them to bombard you as they did, though I should have known better.  These are dark times, and their suspicion is warranted” Solas explained, “They will come to trust you.”

“I hope so.” Flashes of what could happen if they did not flooded her mind.  

“Come, let me show you around this place.  I am certain you have many questions.” He sounded almost excited as he motioned her to join him. She followed eagerly, jumping at the opportunity to feel slightly less lost.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult for me to write, for some reason, so I apologize for taking so long to update! Unfortunately, I have some major exams coming up, so it will likely be several weeks before I can update again. 
> 
> I have been so amazed by the wonderful response I have received to this story. Thank you all so much for reading it and leaving comments.


	3. Boring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tour of Skyhold leaves Heather overstimulated and exhausted. A trip to the tavern is not as relaxing as she would have hoped.

“Skyhold,” as Solas had called it, was more immense than Heather could have imagined, and she had now seen it in its entirety.  Unfortunately, its entirety had seen her as well. Remarks floated audibly above hushed whispers, calling her a “demon,” a “witch,” and a bunch of other horrid things that made her feel as if she were the protagonist in a Hawthorne novel.  She failed to understand how a mundane person like herself was of such intense and scandalous interest in a world where dragons existed and people could summon flames from their hands. She did not want to be there anymore than they wanted her to be there, but it was not as if she had much choice in the matter.

The lowest level of Skyhold, where she had entered, was home to a campfire surrounded by several tents, vendors with French-sounding accents, and the stables that held horses and several other mounts that looked nothing like horses.  A solemn, stout, man with a glorious beard who appeared to be in his early fifties whittled diligently at a large chunk of wood. He called her “milady” and himself “Blackwall.” He spoke with the confidence of someone his age, but his eyes conveyed the doubt and insecurity of a much younger man.

A flight of stairs led to the upper level of the courtyard where a tavern called the Herald’s Rest stood.  Solas explained that it was named after the inquisitor, who was conversely known as the “Herald of Andraste.” Andraste was, apparently, a prophet who was married to the human god called the Maker. Of course it was a religious organization, because what else had she expected an inquisition to be?  Lady Eyebrows, Cassandra, also stood in the upper courtyard sparring with several dummies made of wood, straw, and cloth. She was beautiful and terrifying, and she made a point to apologize for her prior hostility.

Yet more stairs led into the main hall of the castle, a grand room adorned with stained glass, banners and a throne that was as pointy as it was excessive.  Masked men and women in ridiculous outfits filled the room with hot air. A dwarf sat at a table in the corner, his feet propped up casually and his shirt unbuttoned even more casually.  He mumbled something about “weird shit,” before introducing himself as “Varric,” and making a plug for some biography he wrote about some person Heather had never heard of, but probably should.

Doors on either side of the hall led to different wings of the castle.  The door directly behind Varric led to a rotunda that Solas called his office.  It smelled of fresh paint and elaborate murals decorated the walls. A narrow corridor with still more stairs spiraled up into a library with shelves that touched the ceiling. Some robed figures Heather assumed were mages studied at the tables.  One young woman had an odd tattoo on her forehead and a vacant expression on her face. Heather wondered if she was alright.

In one of the many nooks in the library, a man who appeared to be around her age was furiously flipping through pages and tossing books into a pile behind him, mumbling in some language she did not recognize.  He reminded her of Freddie Mercury with his dark hair, mustache, and swagger that was apparent in each movement he made. He was the first person Heather encountered aside from Solas - and Cole, who had disappeared without a word - who had not been at least a little afraid of her.  He offered her his hand to shake, a genial smile, and his name: Dorian.

She never wanted to see stairs again, she decided, as she followed another staircase up to a room cluttered with boxes and bird cages.  Ravens cawed and shuffled their wings incessantly. The hooded woman she had seen earlier stood at a table, letters spread out in front of her.  Solas and Heather attempted to leave before they disturbed her, but she had already noticed them. Without looking up from her work, she explained that she was Leliana, the spymaster for the inquisition… whatever that meant.

Returning to the rotunda and exiting out a separate door led to the Commander Ken Doll’s office, where he paced around his desk anxiously as he had paced around outside just a few hours before.  He noticed Heather watching and furrowed his brow suspiciously. “Cullen,” was cold, but kind enough. He did not trust her. It was more than abundantly clear.

The remaining doors in the main hall led to an open and overgrown garden where women in odd hats sat in prayerful meditation, an undercroft where an overly eager dwarf resided, happy in her minimal awareness of personal space, and Josephine’s office.  She formally introduced herself as “Ambassador Montilyet,” but immediately insisted that Heather call her Josephine. They would be working very closely together, after all. As they exited the room, she asked that Solas stop arguing with the “Orlesians,” and he told her he would make no promises.

They now stood on one of the battlements, looking in over Skyhold’s courtyard. Heather appreciated the distance that made everything smaller and less imposing. For the last few hours, she had been bombarded with so much information, yet there was still so much she did not know. A slight smile crawled across her face. It was like the first year of graduate school, that similar feeling of groping around in the dark, not certain of what she was doing and even less certain that she was supposed to be there. She exhaled the breath she did not realize she had been holding.

“You are quiet,” Solas said, jarring her from her thoughts.  She had forgotten he was still with her.

“This is a lot to take in at once,” she explained.

“I imagine it cannot be easy, waking up in a world completely different from your own, surrounded by those who treat you with hostility and suspicion.”

He spoke as someone who understood from experience, rather than someone who was just trying to empathize. He looked out over the battlements, too, his eyes seeming to focus on everything and nothing at the same time. For all his apparent knowledge of this world, he looked so lost in it.

“Hostility and suspicion are adaptive responses to fear and perceived threats,” Heather stated, “Outsiders like us are a threat.”

“You presume I am an outsider,” Solas asked, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. He looked curious and amused, rather than cross.

“You understand this land and its people, but you are not attached to them,” she explained, “You talk about everything as if you are watching from a distance, even though you’re right in the middle of it all.”

“And you determined all of this in the few hours you have known me?”

“I may not know you, but I know people,” Heather explained as she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the parapet. She pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to relieve the stress-induced headache that was beginning to form.

Solas was silent in response as he moved to stand beside her and look over the Skyhold, watching  the people below carry out their lives. They did not speak again until Solas dismissed himself, explaining that he had a scheduled meeting with the Inquisitor. Heather thanked him for his help, and they parted ways. She headed down the steps toward the Herald’s Rest. Hopefully she would be able to find a solitary corner to have a drink and unwind.

Her hopes, unfortunately were crushed as she entered the tavern to find it full to the brim with off duty soldiers. The sound of a minstrel’s lute  could be heard over the roar of voices and some of the men and women were drunkenly singing along. It reminded her very much of some of the pubs she and her friends frequented in college. If she closed her eyes tightly enough so that she did not see the large, grey, tree of a man with horns and an eye patch lounging casually in the back, she could pretend she was back home, relaxing after a long day at work.

She shuffled over to the bar and asked the bartender for “anything.” She was not exactly sure what kind of spirits were available in this world, but she was almost certain they did not have her go-to hard cider. The bartender slid a large tankard to her and she nodded in thanks. She took a sip and cringed. It was not good.

Despite her attempts to avoid the horned man in the back of the room, she could not. Horny could speak. Loudly. He shouted and waved her over with his massive hand.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath and then took a large gulp of the piss they passed off as ale.

“You must be the one the boss has been complaining about,” he said jovially, “Don’t worry, she complained about me, too.”

“If by “boss” you mean the Inquisitor, then yes,” she said, having to shout to be heard from only feet away, “And it was less like complaining and more like threatening me within an inch of my life.”

Horny laughed heartily, “That’s the boss for you, a feisty little ball of rage.”

“You make that sound like a good thing.”

“It _is_ a good thing,” he asserted, “Trust me.”

“Oh,” Heather said, almost embarrassed, “Are you two a… thing?”

“Hah!” a different, quieter voice cut through the racket, “He wishes. Chief’s always had a thing for redheads.”

The comment came from a dark, handsome young man sitting awkwardly in a chair in the corner nearby.  He stood and walked over to join them. He winked at Horny who rolled his eyes and playfully punched the man’s shoulder.

“I take it you two know each other,” Heather observed, feeling very left out of the loop.

“Oh right, Horny said, “Introductions. The name’s Bull, The Iron Bull, and this here is my Lieutenant, Krem de la Créme.”

“Cremisius Aclassi,” the younger man corrected, as he shook Heather’s hand “Or just Krem. The chief thinks he’s funny.”

“I am funny,” Bull retorted playfully, “Krem here is just a little sensitive because he thinks you’re pretty, and I’m embarrassing him.”

“Right, well,” Krem said clearing his throat, “Anyway, that’s us.  What about you? What’s your name?”

“I’m Heather,” she answered cheerfully, “It’s nice to meet both of you.”

She sat for an hour or so talking with her new acquaintances.  She learned that Bull was from a race of people and a religion called the “Qun,” and that he chose his current moniker because under this Qun, people are not given names, but designations.  She learned that he lost his eye saving Krem from some trouble and that Krem had been part of his mercenary group, “The Chargers” ever since. She told them about her world and her life prior to her arrival in Thedas. The conversation was a welcome departure from the gravity the rest of her day had held.  It was pleasant, and the alcohol numbed the anxiety that prickled at the back of her mind.

“Well, I should probably go get some sleep,” Heather said with a sigh as she stood up, “Or at least lie in bed thinking about all the ways that this is a disaster.”

“You should come drink with us again sometime,” Krem offered.

“He means you should come drink with _him_ again sometime,” Bull interjected, laughing when Krem huffed and rolled his eyes.

She waved as she headed to the bar to return her empty tankard to the bartender.  He looked confused and grumbled something about how the “wenches” should have taken care of the used glasses.  She explained that she was just trying to be helpful, but he wanted no part of it. As she turned to walk a way, a young elven woman with pixie cut blond hair and freckles approached the bar.  
  
“Oy, Baldy,” she shouted, “Fill me up, and also quit being so grumpy. Shite.”

“For the last time, my name isn’t ‘Baldy,” the bartender spat as he filled up Freckles’ pint.

“Right. ‘Course it isn’t. It’s Lord Grumpy, the bar troll.”

The man grumbled as he slid the pint across the bar to Freckles.  She took a large swig before directing her attention to Heather.

“Arse,” she said as she shook her head, “I’m Sera, by the way.. wait....You’re the one who fell out of the sky, right?”  
  
“I’m Heather,” Heather replied, “And yes. That’s me.”

“Boring,” Sera stated sharply.

“That’s the exact opposite of what I’ve heard from literally everyone else.  It seems like the consensus is that falling from the sky is pretty un-boring.”

“If you haven’t noticed, loads of things are falling from the sky these days. Demons, freaky spirit things, Ladybits, more demons. It’s weird, yeah, but you’re just human.”

“Ladybits,” Heather asked, not entirely sure that she wanted to know the answer.

“The Inquisitor,” Sera explained, “ She came out of the sky too, only she has this weird shiny hand thing going on. Wigs me out.  So yeah, you’re boring. I like it.”

“Thanks.. I guess.”

Sera winked and gave Heather a pat on the back before finishing her drink and heading up to the second level of the tavern.  Heather was finally able to leave the bar and make the trek across Skyhold to her room, reflecting upon her day as she did so.  As hectic and strange as everything had been, this was the most excited and energized she had felt since the beginning of graduate school.  It was anything but boring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it took me a long time to update. I have simply been swamped with comprehensive exams and summer classes. Not to mention, I found this chapter to be particularly challenging because it is so very expositional. Necessary, but tedious to write, and super long. Thank you all for reading and thank you all for your patience. I hope you enjoyed.


	4. Finding the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scmoozing with nasty nobles is not Heather's strong suit, but neither is delivering messages to people who don't really like her. Damn it, Jim. She's a psychologist, not a messenger!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This is a very intense chapter and includes mention of flashbacks and things like that. If this is something that could be harmful to you in any way, I would advise that you don't read this chapter and take care of yourself. :)

Settling into Skyhold had not been so terribly bad aside from the holes in the walls and ceiling of nearly every room that allowed cold air to trickle inside, chilling Heather to the bone each time a particularly strong gust of wind happened by.  She probably shouldn’t have complained — after all, they were kind enough to give her her own room, ample quilts and wool blankets for her bed and several changes of clothes. Although, the people in this place seemed to always wear the same thing, day after day. Did they have multiple sets of the same clothing? Did they just never change at all? It was a wonder they did not smell.  Not that she had attempted to sniff anyone, or anything so creepy.

She especially did not intend on sniffing the plethora of snobby nobles that Lady Josephine had her deal with on a daily basis.  They were all frustratingly and inappropriately masked as if they were attending a fancy ball. It made it exceedingly difficult to read nonverbal cues other than the haughty gesture of turning their noses up so high when they spoke to her that they could probably smell their Maker’s farts. 

One lush of a man had taken a particular interest in Heather, complimenting her “glimmering aqua orbs,” which sounded oddly like something she had read repeatedly on bad fanfiction during her middle school anime days. 

“Pardon, Miss Amell,” the man said in an accent that sounded much like French.  He took her hand in his and kissed it in a fashion that left Heather attempting not to visibly gag. 

“Yes?” she replied through her teeth, refraining from smacking his hands away and telling him that it was  _ Doctor _ Amell. It was not as if he would understand anyway.

“You are so lovely. I am surprised you have no husband or any suitors.”

Heather laughed. A husband? Suitors? Her? Not that the idea of having a husband or wife or partner did not appeal to her, but “suitors” were a little too Victorian for her taste.

“I would happily court you if you were not so spirited,” the man continued, “You have yet to accept any of my advances.”

“We’ve been over this,” she stated dryly, “It would be inappropriate and completely against my personal moral code to fraternize with those with whom I work professionally.”  Even has she been interested in the vile creature, she would never have acted on it; years of ethical guidelines had insured that.

“Ah, but the chase entices me so. I will have you yet,” the man seemed to threaten as he pulled Heather toward him. Others around in the great hall gasped and watched as the scene unfold. Heather closed her eyes tightly, bracing for the impact of his sloppy, foul-odored mouth against her own.

Instead, she heard the thump of a staff against his head, opening her eyes just in time to see him collapse to the ground in front of her. 

“Do mind the rabble, dear” an elegant voice rang out, and Heather looked up to see who it came from. 

It was a goddess, clearly.

The woman was tall and dark, with lean muscles, and high cheekbones.  She was dressed in what had to be Thedas’ version of “high fashion,” with a horned headdress that nobody else could have possibly pulled off.  She had kind, glittering eyes, accented by a full-lipped smirk.

“I do not believe we’ve met,” she spoke again, tilting her head as she looked at Heather, discerningly.

“Oh, I am Heather. Heather Amell. I am...new here.”

“You must be the one everyone is gossiping about,” the woman responded, “I am Madame Vivienne De Fer, but you may call me Vivienne.  I apologize for not greeting you sooner. I have been away, attending to... personal affairs. I trust you have been treated kindly?”

Heather’s chest tightened and tears began to burn in her eyes. Strange, considering she wasn’t typically outwardly emotional.  It dawned upon her that she had been here for a while now and this woman was the first person to really ask about her well-being. Lesson one of working with someone going through a rough time: Validate the shit out of them. Clearly it worked on Heather, too. It was like magic. She nodded a yes before becoming keenly aware that there was now an unconscious man on the floor before her.  

“Shouldn’t we… uh,” she fumbled as she looked at the knocked noble.

“Don’t worry dear,” Vivienne assured, “He is more than capable of picking himself up off the floor when he regains consciousness.”  She laughed gently.

“I suppose I owe you my thanks.  I would have been cleaning my mouth out for years if he’d have managed to plant one on me.” 

“There isn’t a person here who is entitled to you or anything you possess,” the other woman explained, “They may not be vile as this man, but there are many who would seek to abuse your gifts.  Don’t be shy to remind them of their place.”

In the time that it took for Heather to consider what ‘gifts” she could possibly have to offer in a place that had literal magic, Vivienne had turned to walk away, greeting several nobles graciously as she did so.  What an interesting and inspiring person. Heather wondered what had happened to her that gave her such grace and strength. Perhaps she had always possessed them.

She was still racking her brain trying to determine the nature of her so-called “gifts”  when the door to Solas’ rotunda burst open, slamming against the wall. Varric recoiled, nearly losing his balance, as the Inquisitor stormed out in a fury.  Her fists were clenched at her sides and her breath was sharp and heavy. Solas appeared in the doorway, a defeated smile on his face.

“ _ Lethallan _ , I had no intention of upsetting you,” he sighed, reaching out a hand to touch her shoulder, which she promptly batted away. 

“Oh, really,” the inquisitor spat, “Your way of not upsetting me is to call my people ignorant children?”

“I was simply suggesting that you possess curiosity and insight that I have not seen from others like you,” Solas explained calmly, his frustration betrayed by his expression.

“ _ Like  _ me? What the  _ fuck  _ is that even supposed to mean?  You’re an elf, too.  _ You’re  _ like me.  I suppose that makes you an ignorant child as well.”

“ _ Niamh _ ,” he urged as he stepped toward her again, “ _ Ir abelas _ . I misspoke.”  
  
“Whatever, Solas,”  Niamh answered, her voice losing it’s sharp edges as she turned and continued to walk away, heading toward the door at the far corner of the hall, behind the too-pointy chair.  She stopped as she passed Heather, “Tell Josephine to cancel my meeting with the patrons this afternoon. I’m in no mood to stick my nose up their asses.”

“But those meetings have been scheduled for days, Inquisitor, “Heather braved a reply, which she regretted instantly as Niamh scowled, eyes like daggers piercing Heather’s own. 

“Don’t care,” she answered with a wave of her hand, a green shimmer flickering in the movement as she exited the room, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her.

The noise echoed through the hall which had fallen silent during the squabble.  The tension in the air was palpable as Heather looked at Solas. His expression was not what she would have expected from the recipient of such a colorful denunciation.  An amused smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as continued to look off in the direction that Niamh had stomped. 

“You have a real knack for pissing her off, Chuckles,” Varric prodded, with  a good-natured laugh.

“It would seem so, yes,” Solas admitted, still smiling. He shook his head and returned to the rotunda, closing the door gently behind him.

The whole scene was curious. Heather looked to Varric for answers, and he offered her a shrug that said “your guess is as good as mine.” She supposed she would learn more in time, but for now, she had business to attend to. 

* * *

 

“She  _ what _ ,” Josephine exclaimed in frustration as Heather delivered the inquisitor’s message about the meeting with the patrons, “The Labossieres have been here for days waiting for an audience with her.”

“I told her that and she said that she didn’t care,” Heather explained.

“Of course she said that. I don’t know how she expects me to garner favor and maintain our financial resources if she refuses to attend any of the meetings I arrange,” the ambassador ranted, pacing in front of her desk and biting her lip, “It was Solas again, wasn’t it?”

“It was, actually. Is that a common occurrence?”

“Too common, though I do not blame Solas entirely,” Josephine let out an exasperated sigh, “I just wish he would refrain from debating with her this close to a patron visit. I would rather manage the diplomatic affairs of an angry druffalo than Inquisitor Lavellan when she is upset.”

Josephine paused and a blush colored her cheeks as she seemed to recognize her tone. She shook her head politely and returned to her seat behind her desk.

“I should not speak of her in such a way,” she sighed, “I love her dearly, but she can be… difficult to work for.”

“Considering all that you do for her, I can imagine it would be frustrating,” Heather reflected.  It wasn’t therapy if you were talking to an acquaintance. It was just effective communication. 

“Yes,” Josephine exclaimed, seeming relieved that someone else said it so she didn’t have to, “Thank you—- and, I would appreciate if this remained between us. I do not wish for it to reach Niamh.”

“My lips are sealed.” Heather winked and made a motion as if to pull a zipper across her mouth. 

“Now I just need to figure out how to entertain our guest without the Inquisitor, and you,” she began pausing to pick up some sealed envelopes, “I know you are not a page, but I have all my other messengers out on errands. Would you care to deliver these to Cullen?”

She did, actually, but she wouldn’t tell Josephine that. He didn’t like her. He made her feel like a criminal or something, always watching, expecting her to go postal at any moment. She thought she was doing pretty well for someone trapped in an alternate reality. 

“These are all his,” Heather asked as she counted no less than five envelopes addressed in handwriting so perfect that she swore she’d seen it as a font in her word processor. 

“His sister writes him often,” Josephine explained, “He rarely reads them, or writes back, but… he should have them nonetheless.”

“Right, okay,” she answered, taking the letters and feeling like she knew more about the commander than she should, “I’ll make sure they get to him.”

* * *

 

Heather fully intended on heading directly to his office. She really and truly did, however, Skyhold was large and she hadn’t been there but a week or so. She got lost, her punishment for relying on GPS for so many years. Circling around several times she finally figured out that the easiest and quickest path to Cullen’s office was through the rotunda. 

“Good afternoon,” Solas greeted her softly as she passed by.  He was painting intricate lines of a new mural from atop a scaffold. Heather would have not noticed him at all had he not spoken. She waved at him and continued through toward the battlement that led to Cullen’s office. 

Approximately ten feet from the door, she froze as an odd sensation overcame her. She felt frightened, so terribly frightened, but it wasn’t her fear. It didn’t belong to her. Her stomach became queasy and her breath was short. Was she having a panic attack? Impossible, or unlikely at the very least since she wasn’t exactly a panic-prone person.  What the  _ hell  _ was happening to her?

Three deep, calming breaths. That’s all she had to do, but it was easier said than done. She pictured all the clients she told to do this very thing not realizing how hard it is to breathe deeply when you feel like your chest is collapsing in on itself.  Had she been more composed she would have made a mental note. “Breathing is hard when you can’t fucking breathe.”

Inhaling through her nose, making sure that she felt the breath in her stomach, and exhaling through her mouth, she counted, “One...Two… Three.” After each breath, the next one became easier as her chest opened up and her body relaxed. She became aware that she was sweating despite the frigid mountain air. Ah, reality. The present.  Or was it the past? The future? Whenever she was, she was okay. 

She steadied herself and approached the door, rapping her knuckles softly against the sturdy wood. No answer. She was tempted to turn away and tell Josephine that he was busy, but her gut told her that she needed to go inside. It was generally unwise to ignore one’s gut.

“Commander,” she said as she opened the door with hesitation. As she looked into the room, she saw him at his desk, elbows on the surface, hands covering his ears. His eyes were closed and his breathing rapid. 

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm,” he mumbled under his breath, his voice trembling with each word, “I shall endure...I shall endure. I  _ must _ endure.”

“Commander, are you alright?” Heather approached the desk slowly. 

“No,” he shouted as he hurled a ceramic ink pot at her. She dodged and it shattered against the wall, leaving blotches of ink where it crashed, “Leave me! I will not- I can’t...”

Without finishing his sentence, he resumed his position at his desk, hunkered over with hands over his ears whispering a prayer. Heather had seen this before. She had seen this too many times before, actually, while she had been working in a trauma unit as one of her internship rotations. This was definitely a flashback, and a pretty severe one at that. He was reliving something horrendous, and she need to help.  She had to help. She rushed to his side, letting the letters was holding fall to the floor, ever aware and cautious of the sword at his side. She had to bring him back to the present, to ground him, so he didn’t hurt himself or someone else.

At that moment the door burst open and a wide-eyed scout burst in, panting as if she had run from the courtyard. “Commander, is everything okay? I heard shouting, and -,”

She stopped when she saw Heather standing beside him, looking around frantically for something that would serve her purpose. 

“What’s going on,” the scout asked, eyeing Heather suspiciously. 

“The Commander is having a flashback,” she explained, “Its very painful and terrifying for him, so I’m trying to find something to help him snap out of it.”

“Oh, he does this sometimes,” the scout stated, dismissing Heather’s explanation, “Some of the soldiers think he’s a bit weak in the mind. It’s just the stress. He usually comes to himself in a half hour or so.”

Heather paused and looked directly at the soldier. She could feel the disbelief and rage bubbling in her chest. Do not yell at the ignorant scout. Don’t tell her what she can shove up her ass.

“This is not a weakness,” she answered bluntly, “Whatever happened to him that has caused him to do this is probably more horrible than you can possibly imagine. I don’t intend on letting him suffer a second longer than he has to.”

“Right, ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-,”

“It’s fine,” Heather interrupted, “Just get me a cold rag and some warm water. Please.”

The scout nodded and retreated from the room quickly. Heather remained at Cullen’s side, watching his sword and hands carefully. Swords were weapons like guns, crafted to kill people, and Cullen was a large, muscular guy.  This was not some sickly patient with a butter knife. 

As she waited for the scout to return, she wondered at the sensation she experienced as she had approached Cullen’s office. It couldn’t just be coincidence that she just so happened to have an unexplained panic response prior to walking in on a flashback. It was too similar. Had she felt the commander’s fear? It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that had happened to her lately. 

“I’ve got the rag, ma’am,” the scout said as she walked back into the room, “The water too.”

“Good, thank you,” Heather answered as she took the rag and the pail of steamy water from the scouts hands, “Do you care to stay. I might need some help?”

“What’re you going to do,” the Scout asked, more curious than suspicious. 

“It’s called grounding. It’s a way of using a person’s senses to let them know that they’re not actually reliving the bad thing that happened to them.”

The scout nodded that she understood watched closely as Heather placed the bucket on the desk in front of the commander.  She touched his shoulder lightly, causing him to flinch. 

“Commander,” she said softly, calmly, “I’m going to try to help you, okay? I need to touch the back of your neck and take off your gloves.” 

She didn’t know if he could hear her, but she felt he deserved to know she was going to touch him. It was impossible to discern what his trauma had been at the moment, but touch could be just as triggering as anything.

Heather placed the cold cloth at the back of his neck, insuring that it came into contact with his skin instead of the fur  _ thing _ that he wore over his armor. Without instruction, the scout started removing Cullen’s gloves. Heather was impressed, and felt bad about her earlier response. It was probably for the best that the other woman did that. There were so many buckles and pieces. She would have never figured it out. 

Once the gloves were off, she spoke to Cullen again, “Okay, now I’m going to have you put your hands in some very warm water.”

She helped him put his hands into the bucket, making sure that the cloth was still on his neck, and continued speaking to him, “I want you to think about how it feels, and think about where you actually are. Take some really deep breaths if you are able. I know everything you’re seeing seems so very real right now, but it’s not. You’re here in Skyhold, and you are safe.” 

Cullen did as she said and breathed deeply, trembling slightly with the exhale. His breathing began to slow, and his entire body seemed to lose its tension. He grimaced and shook his head before his eyes blinked open and he looked around, confusion painting his face. He turned to look at Heather, and smiled tenderly.

“Lucia,” he said as if it were almost, but not quite a question. 

“No, no. It’s me, Heather,” she answered unsure why he called her by that name. 

“Right, of course,” he said as he shook his head again, and removed his hands fell the water and cloth from the back of his neck, “You will have to forgive me. I’m not- This is -.” He sighed in frustration.

“It’s okay, Commander,” she assured him, “I know you can’t help it.” 

“How did you know that would work,” he asked as he looked curiously at the cloth and bucket, “How did you know I needed to be reminded of the present?”

“In my world, part of my job is to help people cope with and process some of the terrible things that happen to them,” she explained,  “It’s not uncommon for people to have flashbacks, or to relive the worst moments of their lives. It’s good to know ways to help them out of that, you know?”

“Yes, well, you have my thanks, Lady Amell.” His voice was softer than it had been when he had spoken to her before, “But I’m sure you had other reasons for coming here. Did you need something?”

“Oh, no. Not really,” she said as she walked away from the desk to stand next to the scout who was cleaning up the remnants of the ink pot and picking up the letters Heather dropped. The scout handed her the letters, leaving smudged black fingerprints at the corner, “Josephine just sent me with these letters for you.”

“Ah, Mia,” he said as he took them from her hands, “I really should write her back, shouldn’t I?”

“I think that’s up to you, Commander,” she replied, “But it’s not all that common to have family that is so supportive. It’s something to cherish.” She smiled and bowed her head slightly, before turning to leave the room, thanking the scout for her help. 


	5. It All Started with a Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say that in times of stress, it is good to do what one knows. With little time to adjust to her new surroundings, and unnerved by her previous day's encounter, Heather throws herself into what she knows best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the incredibly long delay in updating! Last semester kicked my butt, but I'm back to writing now, with a vengeance.

_ Date: ??? _

_ Time: ??? _

_ Data: I found C. in his office, hunkered over his desk having a flashback to some past event.  He repeated the words of a prayer, and threw an ink pot toward me when I approached. I was able to help out of his dissociative state through the use of grounding techniques.  When he came to, he called me by the name “L.” There was no indication of who L. is.  _

_ Assessment: C. was oriented to person, but not to time, place, or situation. He appeared to believe he was experiencing a past event. His speech was appropriate, but he was agitated and not thinking rationally. It is possible that C. could be a danger to himself or others, however, it is unclear from current evidence.  _

_ Plan: TBD. I should probably avoid him and not get entangled in this whole weird thing, but I feel compelled to help.  _

The lines of ink clumped and smeared as Heather struggled to to gain control of the quill in her hand. She would have killed for a computer. Hell, she would have killed for a normal pen. Pure, cold blooded murder for a Bic. Who in their right mind thought writing with a damn feather was the best way to go anyway? Looking down at her note that looked as if it had been hastily scrawled, despite the fact that she had been writing for approximately a half-hour, she wondered why she even bothered. It wasn’t as if she needed documentation. The commander didn’t exactly seem the type for litigation. Not to mention, she wasn’t even his therapist!  Why did she care? Then again, she did quite literally  _ feel  _ his panic attack. What the hell even was that?

Heather shook her head in an attempt to refocus, and moved her note aside to let the frustrating, black liquid dry.  It had been days since her encounter with the commander, and she was still shaken by whole thing, whatever it was. She looked to the stack of books that she had gathered in a vain attempt to learn more about this “Thedas” place.  She had gathered several texts about culture and history. Hopefully, Sister Petrine and Brother Genitivi knew what they were talking about, as they seemed to be the only noteworthy scholars in the whole damn library. Tracing the smooth bindings with her fingertips, she deliberated which presumably tedious read she should crack open first. 

“I felt it, too,” a voice said from behind her, announced only by a chill prickling up her spine. She jumped and nearly fell from her seat, knocking several of the books from the table as she attempted to steady herself. 

“Holy shit!” She examined the white apparition she saw as she turned to the direction of the voice. “Cole?”

“Trapped and tormented, Templar no more.” Cole walked toward her and sat on the edge of the table.  He stared off into the distance, appearing to look at something and yet nothing all at once. “Armor is supposed to be safe, but steel is not a shield from the past.”

“What are you-,” Heather began. It was instinctive to asking for clarification, but she realized she already understood him perfectly.  The young man’s words captured the feeling that overwhelmed her as she stood outside of Cullen’s office the day before. “The commander.”

Cole nodded. 

“How?”  There was more to the question than Heather could express.  She never had such trouble grasping at words. How did he feel it? How did she know she could? Moreover,  _ why?  _ It must be a fluke, a coincidence! 

But there was no answer.  A blink of her eyes, and her hat ghost was gone, leaving Heather to wonder if he had even been there in the first place.  Her trust in her own perception was flimsy at best. She could still be dreaming after all. She turned her attention back to the pile of books on the desk, and a thick, red tome, decorated by a relief image of a burning sword caught her eye. Had it been there before? She traced the outline of the sword before opening it to see the title:  _ Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry. _

“Templars…  _ Templar no more _ ,” she breathed to herself, “Cole.” It had most certainly not been there before. 

It had been a long time since she read something that evoked such a righteous fury.  Of course, the author had done her best to understate the obvious abuses that the Chantry had doled out upon people who did nothing other than exist, but it was obvious nonetheless. Imagine a religious organization justifying oppression by labeling the way they were born as a curse, a sin!  How novel! That accompanied by the entire institution of the Circle with its arbitrary hierarchy was entirely too familiar. What could possibly go wrong when you place people in a confined space and tell one group that they have power over another? It was a fantastical replication of the Stanford Prison Experiment, and in this case had been allowed to reach its culmination.  The Rites of Annulment and Tranquility sounded horrific, even though there was little detail provided about what they entailed. 

And Cullen had been a Templar?  Had his trauma come from the violence he had inflicted on others. That kind of thing wasn’t unheard of after all. Or, was it something else.  It was not as if he were personally to blame for the organization that allowed such things to happen. In fact, it seemed as if the Templars were just as much victims of the system as they were perpetrators of abuse.  Recruited at a young age, indoctrinated, and required to take an addictive substance that may or may not kill them or at least give them some significant neurological problems. It had taken some extra research to figure out what “lyrium” was an how it was used by the Chantry, but she could not say she was shocked. 

Heather did not know how long she had been reading, but judging by the headache forming at her temples and the rays of sunset streaking in through the windows, “a long time,” was a reasonable estimation.  Slamming the book shut, she tossed it onto the floor with more force than she intended, echoes bouncing from every bookshelf in the circular room. She ducked, hoping that nobody would shout at her for the racket.

“Hey now, careful with the literature,” a man quipped from around a nearby bookcase.  Footsteps, and Dorian revealed himself to her, an amused smile under his mustache as he leaned against the wall. “Also, remind me to never do whatever it is that book has done to earn your ire.”

“Sorry,” she said pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure behind her eyes. “I was just--.”

“No need to explain.  I have thrown more than a few of these glorified pieces of garbage myself.”  He picked up the book on the floor. “It is simply a waste to not throw them over the balcony and aim for Solas.”

“Are you serious?” An embarrassing snort escaped her.

“Well, it was an accident the first time.” Dorian winked an opened the book she had been reading. “Ah! Sister Petrine and Chantry politics.  How could you possibly be upset by such a positively cheerful read?” He rolled his eyes and tossed the book over his shoulder. 

“It’s abhorrent.”

“Hmm. Yes.”  He appeared to contemplate his next words carefully. “I’d say that things are much better in my country, where mages hold the authority, but Tevinter has its own set of… issues.” 

“So does every country in my world,” Heather said with a sigh, “That’s just what happens when you place people in categories and award them power accordingly.  It seems it is inescapable.” 

The sound of a door slamming open against a wall in the rotunda below interrupted whatever thought Dorian had been about to express.  She looked toward the balcony and then back to her acquaintance whose eyes glittered with mischief,conveying exactly what she was thinking.  This, they had to see. The inquisitor was quite interesting to observe in her fits of rage. She followed him to the rails of the balcony and crouched to peer between them, rather than over them.  It was slightly less obvious, at least. 

Despite her loud entry, Niamh’s body language was not particularly aggressive as she approached Solas, at least not compared to her typical manner.  In fact, the inquisitor appeared to be unsure of herself, standing a more-than-polite distance away from Solas, who remained seated at the desk in the center of the room, but sat his book down and looked up at her with… was that  _ affection?  _ Heather’s heart fluttered, almost congruently, in her chest. Weird, and somewhat annoying. 

“Sleep well?” Solas asked, again, his voice resonating with something more that Heather was not used to hearing.

“I had an interesting dream,” Niamh answered pointedly, crossing her arms, “I was in Haven, and so were you.  We talked, which we’ve done a lot, and then we kissed  _ multiple times _ , which is weird because as far as I remember, that’s not something we do. Or at least it’s never been something we’ve done before.” She paced nervously and gestured emphatically.  

Heather had yet to see - or rather, feel -  either of the elves this affected. “I thought they hated each other,” she whispered to Dorian who promptly shushed her, his attention fixated on the scene below.  

Solas laughed softly and stood, walking around his desk so that he stood in front of Niamh.  “I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. I should not have encouraged it.”

“Multiple times,” Niamh blurted, causing him to laugh again.  “You say that, but you’re the one who started using tongue.”

“I did no such thing.” He tilted his head upward slightly as he spoke, as if he hoped to retain some aloof sense of dignity, but Heather could see the playful grin at the corners of his mouth even from as far away as she was.

“Oh really? Then I guess your tongue just fell into my mouth,”  Niamh smirked and shifted her weight from one hip to the other, “Or does it not count since it was Fade tongue?”

There was a rustle of movement at Heather’s side. 

“I think I’ve seen all that I care to.” This time it was Dorian who blurted out, shaking his head as he stood up and offered a hand to Heather, “What about you?”

“Same.” She took his hand, and allowed him to help her from her awkward crouching position. Her knees were more numb than she cared to admit.  “I was expecting another heated debate, not that. It feels...wrong to watch a more intimate moment.” 

“I simply have no interest,” Dorian said matter-of-factly, “Though I cannot say that I’m surprised, the way they carry on all the time.”

Heather nodded in agreement, but her heart was still fluttering about in her chest as if it had sprouted wings and was flying around in there.  Damn it all, it wasn’t as if  _ she _ kissed anyone in a dream.  The overwhelming sensation of infatuation dashed any hope that the incident with Cullen had been a coincidence.

“Are you alright?” Dorian snapped his fingers in front of her face, drawing her attention back to their conversation. 

“Hmm? Oh, uh yeah.” She fumbled around for words.  “I’m just tired, I think. I’m, uh, I’m going to go get some rest.”

“Well, okay then.” His words barely reached her ears as she had darted from the library and down the stairs. 

There was anxiety, her own this time, at the prospect of feeling what others felt.  It was wrong, an intrusion, some sort of involuntary sixth sense eavesdropping, and she needed to remove herself from the strong emotions in the rotunda.  She had woken up in a world that was not her own, met some incredibly weird people, and yet this ESP bullshit would be what did her in. 

She found herself in the Herald’s Rest instead of her room, and figured that she might as well get a drink while she was there.  Perhaps the alcohol would have a numbing effect, or at least make her care less about her distress for a time. She made an unfortunate joke about wanting a shot of Maker’ Mark to Cabot, who obviously did not get the reference, and poured her a tankard of some sort of cider instead.  She was pleased with his choice. 

Carrying her comically large tankard, she took a seat in the quietest, most isolated corner of the bar, sighing as she took a sizable drink of the beverage and slammed it down on the table. She sad alone drinking and trying to pretend as if she were enjoying the minstrel’s music. She wasn’t, but the buzz of intoxication erased any motivation she would have had to do anything else. 

“Looks like someone’s had a rough day.” She looked up to see Bull’s lieutenant , the handsome one whose name was on the tip of her tongue, standing a few feet from her table. A grin spread across his face. “Cabot saves the big glasses for serious cases. Well, serious cases  _ and _ the chief.”

Krem. His name was Krem. 

“So I’m a serious case, then.” She laughed more loosely than she would have liked. “Tell me, do you think I’ll survive?”

“I hope so,” he said quickly, blushing as if he was shocked by how quickly he answered. He cleared his throat, “I just mean that it would be a shame if you were to die before we got to have a drink together.”

Heather looked from the remaining drink in what looked to be her second tankard to the bottle he held in his hand. “Huh, we’re off to a good start.”

“I guess we are,” Krem laughed and shifted his weight uncomfortably, “Care if I join you?”

“Not at all,” she answered motioning toward the vacant seat beside her, and he took it. "Shall I give you an account of the events that brought me here today?"

The way he laughed at her indicated that she was perhaps more drunk than she was even aware, but he nodded, appearing to be amused. 

"Well," she began, taking her drink in her hand, "It all started with an pen..." 


	6. Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confused and disturbed by Heather's presence, Cole seeks answers from Solas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short but sweet chapter! Excited to finally introduce Cole's POV! Thank you all for your patience in waiting for me to update.

Bright and blurry, a barrier Cole couldn’t break past.  He could scarcely remember a time when he had not been able to reach a hurt he knew was there.  Heather confused and unsettled him. It wasn’t right. She was not supposed to be there, not as she was anyway.  Any attempts he made to hear her thoughts resulted in a shock of unpleasant emotions that were not even hers, magnified to a maddening degree, but being near her was less painful than not being near her. Like a moth toward a flickering flame, he was drawn. It could not be helped. 

He didn’t really know why he sought her out in the library. He felt her feel Cullen’s hurt. Memories, muted and muddied, different from how Cole experienced them.  Had it bothered Heather as it bothered him? Skin crawling, heart racing, running from long-dead demons that still refused to leave.

“Cole,” a calming voice rang out, resonating in two places, bringing Cole from his thoughts, “Why are you hiding?”

_ Strong. Sad.  _

“Solas,” Cole answered, shedding the shroud of the Fade behind which he hid, “I’m sorry. You don’t like it when I do that. I forgot.”

Solas smiled, still sad despite his attempts to push it down. “No need to apologize.  It is simply unnecessary, not bothersome.” He did not look up from the parchment on which he was focused, charcoal dust dirty on his fingertips, drawing. Cole stepped forward, taking extra precaution to not move too fast.  Solas didn’t mind, but others called him creepy —or at least thought it rather loudly—when he did things like that. 

Hurried and messy lines seemed like nothing when focused upon singularly, yet pulling his vision back to examine the whole image allowed him to see her. The Inquisitor. Niamh.  Solas cared for her, though he denied it even to himself. She challenged him and changed things. Confusing, conflicting, she could not be real, but she was. 

“She’s very beautiful,” Cole said softly bring his gaze up to look at Solas from under the brim of his hat.  The thoughts were Solas’, not Cole’s, though he did think she was pretty with her shiny red hair and skin spotted from the sun. “But that’s not why you draw her.”

“Cole.” His tone shifted into a warning. It meant that he didn’t wish to talk about it, and that the subject should be dropped. Rhys’ voice did that, too, usually when Cole had done or was about to do something he didn’t like. 

Solas reminded Cole of Rhys, calm and composed, kind.  But, he was more serious and not nearly as warm or friendly, by choice not nature. It helped him remain distant, detached no matter how he longed to be less lonely.  These people couldn’t understand him, he believed. 

“I apologize,” Solas sighed after a few moments of silence, “It is… a sensitive subject, as I am  certain you are aware. You would not have brought it up otherwise.”

Cole blinked and nodded. 

“Anyway, is there something I can help with?” Solas sat down the parchment and dusted the charcoal from his hands. “You look troubled.”

“It’s,” Cole answered, halting, words swarming through his mind more quickly than he could catch them in his mouth, “Heather.”

Solas raised his eyebrows, intrigued by the mention of the unusual woman.  She was fascinating to him, a puzzle, a challenge even. Still, something about her unnerved Solas as well, worry hidden behind his curiosity.  

“Ah, yes!” He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk, and picked up a small journal bound in brown leather.  Thumbing through the pages, he leaned back against the desk, nearly sitting on its edge. “I have been thinking about her as well, and I believe I know  _ how _ she was transported here.  Though, I cannot say why.”

Solas found the page for which he had been looking and pushed off from the desk. He paced around the room as he continued his explanation, excited to share a theory he had likely developed in the early hours of the morning when nobody else had risen.  For someone who liked to dream as much as he did, Solas slept very little. It was difficult for him here. Helpless, hurting, his fault. Cole was glad he found ways to distract himself. The grief was more than anyone should have to carry.

“Reality is often believed to be objective fact, immutable in its definition, but that is only partially true.  The physical world is merely an extension of the Fade, which is more,” he paused,searching for the appropriate word, “Malleable.”

“It wobbles,” Cole added, drawing a good natured chuckle from his somber friend. 

“I suppose it does.” Solas nodded decidedly and closed the journal, returning it to its place on his desk. The smile faded from his face almost as quickly as it had appeared. 

“It would be easier if it didn’t.” Cole sensed the conflicted questions stirring under the silence. 

“It would,” Solas sighed, leaning back against the desk again, arms crossed over his chest. “Still, the nature of the Fade makes it entirely plausible for alternate versions of reality to exist. Different worlds shaped by varied outcomes at crucial points in history.  The fact that we have not experienced Heather’s reality does not mean that it is any less real. For her to have arrived here would require nothing more than the touch of a spirit.”

Solas looked at Cole, searching his face for a reaction, one Cole did not have.  The elf furrowed his brows and tapped a finger against his mouth in response.

“But you came to talk to  _ me  _ about Heather,” he said abruptly, realizing he had gone on a tangent, “Have you a read on her?”

“No.”

“Difficult thoughts? Overwhelming emotions? I presume she must be confused and-“

“I can’t hear her,” Cole interrupted urgently, the anxiety knotting in his stomach. A flood of his own thoughts rushed into his head, and he struggled to shape them into an explanation for Solas. “Her thoughts are blocked, behind a barrier, but she feels from others as I do. I can hear them through her, muffled and muted, like loud  music playing in a different room.”

Solas stiffened as Cole spoke, his brows pressing together, confused and concerned. “She has no hurt then? Nothing you can help?”

“I… think she hurts, but it is hidden,” Cole explained, unable to meet the man’s intense gaze, “It… hurts me when I try to listen. The quiet is too loud.”

“Silence can be deafening when one is accustomed to noise,” Solas said softly, “But you said she feels others as you do?”

“Yes,” Cole nodded and began to pace, propelled by nervous energy, “At first it was just Commander Cullen.  His pain is loud and easy to hear, harder to fix. Heather helped him, hands in cold water. She made him remember the now.”

“And you could feel Cullen’s pain  _ through  _ Heather?” Solas’ expression suggested that he knew more than he said aloud, “Fascinating.”

Solas stood and moved to stand directly in front of Cole, examining him carefully. 

“May I?” He extended a hand, blue magic pulsating at his palm.  Cole nodded his consent and Solas brought his hand to rest on Cole’s shoulder.  The magic sparked, rippling across his skin, searching for something Cole could not name.  It didn’t hurt, but it was unsettling. 

Once the magic had worked through Cole, Solas removed his hand and inhaled sharply. 

“It would appear my theory may have some merit after all,” he said, turning his eyes to meet Cole’s own, “Tell me Cole,  what do you remember from the night before we found Heather in the snow?”

Cole searched his mind for memories of that night, a heaviness settling on his chest when he found the answer. 

“Nothing,” he muttered, his voice no more than a whisper. 


End file.
